


Ruler of Nowhere, Friend of None

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Friendship, Gen, My Edgy OC Is So Kewl, POV First Person, Satire, The Narrator Sounds Incredibly Pompous, deciding whether to warn for torture would be a spoiler, there either is or isn't torture in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know immediately what my creator requires: an unquestioning, devoted servant. I know, too, that he has made me everything he admires and strives to be: intelligent and cruel, willing to subordinate my baser instincts for the sake of justice but constitutionally incapable of accepting another man’s rule. The first deduction I ever make is that my creator is a bit dim." A story of betrayal, justice and sadism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruler of Nowhere, Friend of None

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Saint Gail, who is not named Gail and is not officially recognized as a saint by the Catholic Church yet; to the outlaw torn; to the ones who would betray a friend, who are definitely not saints yet; to those who did not deserve what happened to them; to the man with the dragonflies; to everyone who has put up with this pompous and nonsensical story and its less pompous but more nonsensical dedication; to everyone who has ever had a friend suddenly cease to be a friend; and to everyone who knows what half these references mean.

I begin to exist all at once at ten thirty one morning, already an adult, made for one purpose: to serve my creator. I know immediately what he requires: an unquestioning, devoted servant. I know, too, that he has made me everything he admires and strives to be: intelligent and cruel, willing to subordinate my baser instincts for the sake of justice but constitutionally incapable of accepting another man’s rule. The first deduction I ever make is that my creator is a bit dim.

“There are some evil people I need you to destroy,” says my creator. I know his name, Crowley, though I’ve never heard it before. And on the topic of names, I know I have none, and that all Crowley has given me instead is a title: I am the Autocrat.

“Tell me about these people,” I say. Perhaps I am the right tool for this job after all, if it involves wreaking havoc and destruction in the name of justice.

“It began when the storyteller Vaska retold the Tale of the Indwelling and portrayed the Timekeeper as evil and cowardly. Vaska wants everyone to think the Timekeeper gets off on hurting people. He wants them to think the Timekeeper is a sicko who wants to rape people! He’s trying to ruin my reputation, since I’m the Timekeeper reincarnated. What if people believe him and treat me like a criminal because of it? I asked him politely to stop because I thought it might just be an honest misunderstanding and… that’s how I found out who I was dealing with. See, he and his cronies are just as sick as they like to pretend the Timekeeper and I are. He and his cronies get off on awful things like rape and torture and they use their storytelling to convince people that’s normal. They’re actively promoting these things. They’re waging a campaign to desensitize people to the idea of all sorts of terrible things.” Crowley grimaces. “I still tried to talk to them as if they were decent people. Someone has to stand up to them somehow, but I thought I could just… talk them out of it. I tried, I really did. I explained to them over and over again why what they’re doing is evil. You know what I got for my trouble? Now they’re stalking me. You see this place?”

I look around. It’s a windowless room, chilly, with a bed and some books and, of course, a magic circle drawn on the stone floor. I’m standing in the middle of the circle, which seems to be left over from the ritual that called me into being, the magic gone out of it now but the spells still readable.

“This is where I’ve been hiding since they found my house. Here I am in this stupid basement and I barely leave anymore because Vaska and his cronies stalk me and harass me every time I go outside. I can feel their eyes on me when I go to get groceries. I see them all around, looking all casual, pretending they’re just out running errands or something. But they’re after me. They’re keeping track of everything I do, they’re looking for weakness… I sound crazy. That’s their plan—make me sound like I’ve lost it. Then nobody will believe my warnings. Then I might be locked away because I’m so crazy. They hate me.”

The pain on Crowley’s face is plain and, I think, genuine. He’s furious, too, and afraid, which means I have a good excuse to go find these people and torture them… for justice, of course. I will enjoy bringing justice. I will enjoy setting the world to rights, as violently as… necessary, of course, certainly not as violently as possible.

“They all live in the Black Fortress on Forbidden Island, southeast of here. Now go get my vengeance for me.”

I can see a certain kinship between us when he grins at me, fierce and lusting for blood. He put some of himself into me.

I do hope that doesn’t mean I’ve inherited his lackluster intellect. I’ll just have to be careful and double-check everything I think I know until I’m sure I’m not as stupid as my creator.

-0-

I leave Crowley and steal a boat (since Crowley neglected to provide me with one, though he did provide a few knives) and row out to Forbidden Island. It isn’t too far out to sea, and the short trip is just long enough to give me time to think. I know a great many things that I never learned; somewhere in my memory, I have the entire text of Magic For Dummies, part of a thesaurus, two whole versions (and parts of perhaps four more) of the Tale of the Indwelling, and most of The Complete Guide to Tulpas, Golems, and Other Automata. I have a few assorted ideas without context—bits of folklore? Or history? I can’t tell.

But I can tell that the Black Fortress is not obviously heavily guarded, and in fact a large fraction of its defenses seem to have been repurposed in various ways. I come ashore and wander the place freely, entering over a lowered drawbridge (the ropes to pull it back up seem to be missing), and see that the place looks like it’s now home to a handful of families. Children are playing with blunted training swords—definitely playing, not practicing, I can tell after watching for a while. I wonder why I know enough about weapons to recognize these swords and how they would be used in a real fight, if they were steel instead of wood.

Two of the children stop fighting and turn to threaten me. It’s so cute I can barely keep myself from laughing. I resolve immediately that I should make some enemies, just to have a ready source of this feeling.

“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m looking for Vaska the storyteller.”

The children just look at me blankly.

“You there!” I hear a woman shout. I turn to see her step out of the stone keep and into the courtyard we’re in. She strides quickly toward me. “I haven’t seen you here before. Who are you?”

She puts herself between me and the kids. Smart lady; if killing kids weren’t an injustice, I’d have a lot of fun showing them just how bad their bladework really is.

“I’m a big fan of Vaska the storyteller and I heard he lived here and wanted to see if it would be possible for me to meet him,” I say, faking a certain childlike enthusiasm.

She laughs, loud and harsh. “Vaska hasn’t lived here in years. Didn’t you have to go up to St. Gail to hear his stories? What kind of fail fan are you, anyway?”

“Thank you for telling me,” I say. She has, however rudely, helped me, so I grudgingly accept that I must not use her as my chew toy. So I leave her alive, thinking that unless she is hiding Vaska and lying to me (always a possibility), my creator is quite dim indeed.

-0-

Once I arrive in St. Gail, it isn’t hard to find Vaska. He’s in the center of a crowd, telling a story about a man adventuring in an alternate universe, and I’d rather catch him alone. I wait and listen. It’s… enlightening. The story is clearly almost over, and I listen to a resolution that likely carries much more weight for those who heard the beginning—the hero of the story is… shaken, somehow, by the necessity of war (why? I get the impression that he won), but returns to a loving family whose approval and affection seem to be the very thing he needs to heal the inexplicable mental wounds he seems to have suffered despite his victory.

It makes me think of returning to Crowley after I’m finished here. I came into existence understanding that some people lead and others follow. I came into existence understanding why it is better to lead. I came into existence knowing that those who fail to gain the upper hand follow their betters, serving them for nothing but a pat on the head and the occasional “good boy” when they do well. I have known these things for all of my short life, but now I begin to understand why this is, what lure there is in companionship that those who cannot lead would rather follow than strike out alone. I wonder whether, as long as it is to my advantage to do as Crowley asks, he will offer me that companionship.

Perhaps I will bend him to my will and keep him as my pet and it will be the other way around. I would like that, I think. It would be nice to have a servant who would adore and admire me, who would touch me tenderly whenever I command…

But the time for rumination is ending; Vaska’s tale finishes. He passes his hat around one last time, though it is already half-full of coins, some of them silver and even gold. A good tale, then, to command such a high price. I have nothing to give, and nor do I care to pay an evildoer, but I must admit, if only to myself, that even the very ending was of value to me.

The crowd disperses; Vaska begins to walk home, alone with his coins. I follow casually, at a distance. I think I’ll take the coins for myself; I am the Autocrat, and I feel and react as though I am used to a certain standard of luxury that Crowley cannot provide me.

Vaska looks around, aware of his surroundings. He looks at me once, and then, as we come to a deserted street where I think I stand a good chance of success, he stops and turns to face me.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he demands.

I smile. “I am the Autocrat,” I say. “I am justice. I am vengeance. I am the repayment you so richly deserve.” As I speak, I advance on him slowly yet steadily.

“Fuck off, Edgelord,” he says. His tone is flippant, but his posture is ready for a fight. Good. I feel something pleasant and unfamiliar, localized in my groin; I make a mental note to study an anatomy textbook later, and to get into situations similar to this one in the future.

“Justice will be served, you foolish, impudent creature,” I promise, and surprise myself with the softness of my tone. My speech is like a caress. This is who I am, who I was made to be and who I choose to make myself, and this is what I enjoy.

“That’s what courts are for, dumbass. You tell the judge you are vengeance, you are the night, I’m a big bad monster, I tell the judge you’re full of shit, they decide what happens. That’s justice. You’re just a wannabe vigilante.”

I notice him moving closer to what I initially took for an alcove between two buildings. Now I wonder if it’s a possible escape route. I can’t see where I might find myself chasing after him.

I charge too fast for him to escape me and tackle him right in the mouth of what turns out to be a narrow alley. He grunts and his coins go rolling in every direction, but almost immediately, he’s talking again.

“If you really wanted to deal out justice yourself, you’d study law. Hold a trial. Hell, even telling me the ‘charges’ would be a start.” He laughs, but not from mirth. “Go ahead and do whatever you’re planning on doing, but don’t you dare think you’re a crusader for justice. You’re a criminal yourself, you know, assaulting me like this. Whatever I might’ve done, it doesn’t matter—you aren’t justice. You’re a screwed-up kid in a grown-up’s body, thinking you’re any better than me when you sure as hell aren’t. So go ahead and kill me. And then live with yourself.”

I keep him pinned. He makes a good point. The proper procedures must be followed; justice must come before recreation. “You slandered the Timekeeper, and by extension, his reincarnation. You then proceeded to stalk and harass him. Have you anything to say in your defense, evildoer?”

He laughs, and this time I would believe it was mirthful if only I didn’t know the circumstances. He laughs and laughs and laughs. I grow impatient and dig my nails into his skin. This is the first time I have ever hurt anyone and I feel as though I’m flying.

“Well?”

“You mean besides the fact that I’m the Timekeeper reincarnated? How am I even supposed to slander myself, anyway?”

I wonder if he is lying to save himself. I wonder, suddenly, if Crowley is lying, or perhaps mistaken, about being the Timekeeper. I wonder how I would ever judge, and finally I wonder if it even matters.

“You’ve still been stalking my…” I hesitate. Justice cannot be personal, and further, any relationship between myself and Crowley consists entirely of speculation about the future. “You have been stalking someone.”

“Oh, you’re Crowley’s new chew toy, huh? Well, let me tell you something about your new boyfriend: he threatened to kill someone I care about. So yeah, me and my friends have been keeping an eye on him, making sure he doesn’t do what he already told us he’s planning. Not that you care, ‘cause if you had a fucking ounce of ethics or backbone, you’d never have made friends with that jackass in the first place.”

It turns out I have at least an ounce of both of these things. I look around, beginning to formulate a plan but not sure where to get the materials to carry it out.

-0-

Eventually, I succeed in tying Vaska up and leaving him in an abandoned basement. I then return to Crowley in his hiding place in his mother’s basement.

“I have Vaska imprisoned,” I tell Crowley in lieu of a greeting. His face lights up. “Before I can give you the precisely correct retribution, I need to ask you some questions.”

He looks puzzled, but says, “Yeah, sure, anything.”

“As I was tying him, Vaska mentioned a friend of his named Toxel,” I say, and consider how to phrase my questions. I find I needn’t have bothered to wonder. Crowley answers before I can ask.

“That bitch,” he says. “Track her down, too. Get creative with her. Make it last. Make it hurt, make her scream your name.”

“How long have you hated Toxel?” I ask. The sequence of events here matters; if Crowley’s threats predate the stalking, then he is the aggressor; otherwise, I will go and finish the mission Crowley assigned me.

“Since I first tried to ask Vaska not to slander me and not to talk about rape and murder in a public place where people might hear him. Toxel was there and she had some bullshit sob story about how being raped makes it okay for her to like that garbage. I told her what I thought of that.”

“You first recognized that she deserved to die before the stalking began? Or do you merely wish to believe you saw these people’s true colors before they revealed themselves?”

“I knew all about what they were as soon as I heard how they defended rape and kink and that kind of stuff.”

“And you had courage and told them to their faces immediately? Or were you a coward, silent when you could have spoken out?”

“I’ve always stood up to them as much as I could. The world needs someone to stand between them and the hearts and minds of innocent people and nobody else was willing, so I guess I’m it. And now you’re it, too.”

“Thank you,” I say. “This has been an enlightening conversation.”

-0-

I return to Vaska’s improvised prison. I enter. I walk toward Vaska, intending to untie him.

When I am some fifteen feet from the door, the ropes fall from Vaska’s body; I see that he has cut them, and was merely holding them in place, waiting for me. I hear footsteps behind me and see someone step out from behind a pile of boxes behind Vaska. So Vaska and at least two of his friends have staged an ambush for me.

I chuckle. “I’m impressed by your coordination,” I say, “but I was just coming to offer you a gift. At the top of the stairs, if you’re quick, and if he is less capable an escape artist than you, you might find something that will make you very happy. Consider it a peace offering.” I devoutly hope that Vaska is just that skilled an escape artist; otherwise, I might need to go and subdue Crowley all over again. Not that I mind.

Vaska looks confused, rather than pleased.

“Crowley confessed his crimes. I thought I would allow you the chance to deal with him as you see fit, as recompense for what I put you through.” I worry that it is unjust to abandon an ally, but on the other hand, I never chose alliance with Crowley; he merely presumed that I was his to command. Moreover, he is apparently evil, and therefore undeserving of loyalty regardless of whether he had any right to expect it from me.

The door opens behind me; I turn to see Vaska’s friend rush up the stairs. I hear her shout back down to us, “He’s alive!” I hear Crowley curse.

More slowly, Vaska and his other friend amble toward me. Vaska gestures to the stairs. “You first,” he says, so I precede him up the stairs. At the top, we find that Vaska’s friend has helped Crowley into the most comfortable sitting position his bonds permit and is now offering him a drink from her own canteen.

“I can’t believe all you have is water,” he says after he’s done drinking.

“I know you must want something for the pain you’re in,” Vaska’s friend says in a tone of voice I have never heard before. I don’t recognize it, but the mass of trivia knowledge I was given suggests a vague link to a mother’s treatment of her own child. That would be more helpful if I knew how mothers treat their children, beyond that they keep their own offspring alive at significant cost to themselves.

Personally, I doubt Crowley is in much pain; he is only bruised and scratched. No bones have been broken.

“Untie me,” Crowley demands.

She looks to Vaska and his other friend, apparently seeking guidance.

“Thanks for checking on him, Toxel,” says Vaska.

Vaska’s other friend walks up to them and crouches beside Crowley. “Why have you been picking on Vaska and Toxel?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“So what you’re saying is, you have no reason?”

“Of course I have a reason! You people are vile. You’re trying to subvert the fabric of society. Not to mention how you’ve been slandering me all this time.”

Vaska snarls. Toxel puts a hand on Vaska’s shoulder. Their friend gets in between them and Crowley.

“You’re such a bad liar,” says Vaska’s friend. “You’ve been told before, over and over again, why you’re wrong.”

“Forget it, Trell, he’ll never listen,” says Vaska.

“I really don’t care,” says Trell, and commences quoting from the publications of the Royal Academy, describing surveys purporting to find that people heal faster from various tortures if they tell and hear stories about their experiences.

Vaska turns to me and says, “Pedantry is his calling.”

“He seems to be very good at it,” I say.

“…petty little crusade against rape in fiction is just a cover for your narcissism anyway. So moving on to your next accusation, which is every bit as much bullshit as the other, I don’t even believe you’re the Timekeeper, but let’s say you are…”

Trell goes on like this, accusing Crowley of caring more about being perceived as a good person than about whether people are hurt. This confuses me; it does not sound as though Trell is claiming that Crowley is a coward seeking other people’s approval because he fears their wrath if he lets loose and enjoys himself at others’ expense. Indeed, Trell phrases his claims in such a way that I am forced to conclude that he views the mere impulse to cruelty as itself unjust and worthy of condemnation. This is _prima facie_ absurd, but I realize that if this is what he truly thinks then Trell will turn on me as soon as he is finished with Crowley. I find this almost exciting; self-defense will finally justify hurting someone. My excitement is tempered, however, by the realization that, thrilling though they may be, adversarial relationships based around attempted murder are incompatible with the other sort of relationship I would like, the sort Vaska knows well enough to tell stories about, which I simply don’t know how to have. Perhaps I will need to imprison someone, so that I can demand affection whenever I want it. I think I can force obedience from someone.

“…never going to listen to me, I know,” Trell is saying. “But I don’t care if you do or not. All I want you to understand is this: if you ever go past talking tough and actually manage to hurt someone, well, you’re right about one thing: we know exactly where you live. But if you drop all this now, you can sulk undisturbed forever for all I care. As long as you don’t hurt my friends, I won’t do a damn thing about your obnoxious personality bad taste in fiction. Are we clear?”

He hardly needs to ask, I think; the mere fact that Crowley has allowed him to speak uninterrupted for so long is strong evidence that Crowley is too intimidated to stand up to Trell.

“Yes.” Crowley sounds as deeply resentful as I predicted.

“Great,” says Trell, “it was a real pleasure talking with you.” And he reaches for the ropes binding Crowley. At first, I simply don’t believe what I’m seeing; then I don’t understand. Trell unties Crowley.

“You be a good boy now,” says Vaska, smirking.

“If you need help getting home,” says Toxel, “I know it’s a long way to walk alone and—”

“I don’t need your help,” Crowley says. He spits on the ground in her general direction before walking away.

If I am honest with myself, I must admit that I don’t understand Toxel at all. Crowley makes a good deal more sense.

“I give it a week before he’s back to threatening to rape me to death,” says Vaska.

“Optimist,” says Trell.

Toxel looks distinctly uncomfortable.

Vaska turns to me. “Thanks for being less evil than I thought.”

I know that the correct social protocol in these situations is to say “you’re welcome” and leave it at that. I care not one whit for the correct social protocol.

“What in the name of all that is magical is going on here?” I ask. “Why do you refuse my gift?”

This saying appears to trouble Toxel still further.

“That isn’t a threat,” I clarify. “I ask because I cannot understand your behavior, not because I condemn you.”

Toxel looks relieved. Trell smiles. Vaska laughs.

“It’s called being a decent human being,” says Vaska.

“I am unfamiliar with the concept of ‘a decent human being’ and would appreciate an explanation,” I say. Vaska laughs again. Toxel looks pained.

“It’s how you keep people you want to hang out with from running away,” says Trell.

“You mean rope?” I ask, perplexed. Toxel hides her face behind her hands, and her eyes, peeking out above her fingertips, are wide. Vaska’s grin resembles that of a terrified dog.

Trell lets out a bark of laughter. “Okay, have you ever had to cooperate with someone?”

“No.”

“Well, what about buying things? Where did you get this rope?”

“I stole it, but have no fear, I only stole it in the service of greater justice.”

Vaska grinds the heel of his palm into his forehead.

“Justice!” exclaims Trell. “I can work with that. You understand justice, right?”

“Those who have done evil rightly deserve to be punished,” I say. “That is justice, correct?”

“Something like that, yeah. Killing Crowley would have been evil.”

“He was himself evil. Is it not allowable to make sport of an evil person?”

“Well… yeah, but… look, have you ever heard of ‘empathy’ or is that new to you?”

Empathy is mentioned in Magic For Dummies. “Empathy is the ability to perceive another person’s emotions.”

“And feel them yourself,” says Trell. He pauses. I realize that I lack this ability. I realize also that if I felt Crowley’s emotions, I would seek to make him happy, for no other reason than that it would make me happy for him to be happy. I realize that if I felt Vaska’s emotions, I would not have deliberately hurt him when I subdued him; I would have felt his pain, and that would have displeased me.

“Oh,” I say. “I understand now.”

And I do. I understand why Toxel sought to ease Crowley’s pain, and why torture does not appeal to these people.

This is the moment, I think, when Trell will turn on me, and I am ready.

“So if you want to make friends with empathic people, you can’t upset them too much,” says Trell.

This does not appear to be Trell turning on me. I suppose this is because Trell does not want me to feel any fear; if I did, then so would he. I wonder if most people are empathetic. I doubt Crowley is.

“You seem to know a great deal about friendship,” I say, “and it happens that I am in distress because I don’t know how to form relationships.”

This makes them all smile.

“Indeed,” I say, “it is an unendurable agony to be forever alone.”

This pronouncement is met with laughter. The laughter does not stop within a reasonable amount of time. Only Toxel looks even slightly sad.

“You do not appear to be particularly distressed by my pain,” I say dryly.

“It’s complicated,” Trell gasps, his voice choked with laughter.

Toxel, however, stops laughing. “You want to be friends?” she asks.

“I do.”

“I’m Toxel,” she says, holding out her hand. I take it and kiss it.

“I am the Autarch,” I say. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“The Autarch? You’re the king of someplace?” asks Vaska, suddenly wary. “Where?”

“Oh, nowhere,” I say. “It’s just something Crowley calls me.”

“Wait, what? Why would he call you that if you don’t even rule anything?”

I shrug. “I have no idea,” I say, “but that is the name I was given and it is the only one I have.”

“Crowley named you? Oh, no wonder you act like some kid’s super-edgy OC. You _are_!”

“Crowley is your father?” Toxel asks. This seems to worry her.

“He is my creator,” I say. “I am a being of magic, not a person, and I have no real parents, but yes, Crowley made me.”

Toxel looks oddly solemn, for some reason. I vaguely recall that patricide is unjust; perhaps she thinks ill of me. “You aren’t the only one here who’s been abused by parental figures,” she says quietly.

“I don’t understand. I have no parental figures and I have never yet been abused. Indeed, this is the first time I have received more than very passing attention from anyone at all.”

“That’s… good… I guess,” says Toxel. “Have you got any hobbies you keep busy with, then?”

“No.” I could say that I was created with one hobby, that being torture, but I have never yet had the opportunity to torture anyone, so I don’t think that counts, somehow.

Toxel, to my surprise, smiles. “How about we introduce you to ours?”

“I would love that,” I say, and soon all three of them are vying for the chance to be the first to tell me what they enjoy.

I like having friends.


End file.
